by Oliver North
Newman nodded. “Understood. I'll call you, Gunny.”
“Yes, sir. Good morning, ma'am. By the way, I meant to tell you before...that's a fine looking son you have.”
And then Skillings was gone.
Peter sat down on the sofa beside his wife. The two-page missive from his former commanding officer lay on the coffee table before them. Each of them had read it; neither of them spoke.
Several minutes went by before Peter picked it up and read it again. But the message hadn't changed. In typical Grisham fashion, the letter was addressed to both of them because the man who had written it had known that the reply would affect them both.
Dear Peter and Rachel,
I have directed GySgt Amos Skillings to deliver this to you personally because it is the safest way to communicate.
You already know that you can trust him with your lives. Please do not feel that William Goode betrayed a confidence in giving me your location. I do not wish to jeopardize either of you or your child in any way, but I need you to consider the following information and give me a reply.
First, you need to be aware that over the course of the last 30 days, there have been several official inquiries about you both. I have told GySgt Skillings to advise you of them and trust that if you are reading this, he has done so. Though I do not know what prompted these inquiries now, three years after you were both declared dead, I am deeply troubled by the likelihood that your true identities may soon be discovered and the extraordinary jeopardy that would result for you. It is possible that the FBI and/or the CIA may already have started official investigations. If they have, given the abysmal state of our security, it is only a matter of time before hostile foreign intelligence services learn of it. That could lead those who tried so hard to kill you before to learn about it. Given these events, I believe it is time for us to find a new identity and a safer place for the three of you. Our mutual friend, William Goode, agrees.
Unfortunately, as we were developing options for relocating you, another pressing matter arose. Last week, a credible Iraqi defector told our commander of the CENT-COM training unit in Amman that at least three Soviet-made nuclear weapons were smuggled into Iraq back in '95 by Saddam Hussein's son-in-law, Hussein Kamil. When Kamil fled Iraq in August '95 and defected, he bragged to the CIA that he had acquired some nukes for Iraq but nobody believed him. And as you probably know, Saddam had Kamil killed when he returned to Iraq in February '96.
According to the defector, Kamil had a ten-man security unit of his Amn Al-Khass Special Security Service hide the nukes and then a second special unit of the SSS was ordered to execute those who had hidden the weapons. It makes sense that Kamil would make sure he was the only one alive who knew where the nukes were hidden, but the secret apparently died with him. If the story is true, and I have to assume the worst, we must find these weapons before Saddam or others in Iraq are able to do so. But unless Kamil told someone where he hid the nukes—which is highly unlikely—nobody knows where they are.
The aforementioned defector claims to have an uncle who was one of the execution squad and thinks the uncle may know something of the whereabouts of the nukes. He also says that, a month ago, Saddam launched a major effort to find and recover those nuclear weapons himself.
I have some recent NSA intercepts that indicate key Iraqi intelligence units have been told to search for the weapons and to do so without alerting the UNSCOM inspectors. Interestingly, there are also some old CIA reports about missing Soviet warheads disappearing from the Ukraine at about the time your trouble took place. I can give you more background on this in person.
It is imperative that we locate and recover these weapons before the Iraqi regime does. Though CIA disagrees, DIA believes, and I concur, that if Saddam gets his hands on nuclear weapons, he'll use one against Israel, Iran, or some Western military base and use any others he has as a deterrent against a U.S. or Israeli counter-attack. I believe this rumor is true, and that Iraq does have nuclear weapons within reach. All they have to do is find them. I suppose it's because of what took place in Iraq in '95 and those who compromised your mission that I'm a believer. I am convinced that Kamil was telling the truth and now we have to find those nukes, but we have to keep it off the CENTCOM radar. The Pentagon goes along with the CIA on this, and they think it might be “politically unwise” to conduct a U.S. military operation to go after these weapons.
Given the increased threat to the three of you and the intelligence about these nuclear devices, I propose the following course of action:
1. We immediately find new identities and a safe place for the “Newman/Clancy” family to relocate within the next 30 days.
2. We use Bill Goode's new sailboat to make the move as soon as the new location is found.
3. In the interim, Pete, I need your help in finding out the truth about the three nuclear weapons believed to be in Iraq. It's terrible to admit, but you have better contacts inside Iraq than anyone else in our government. I envision you contacting those who helped you escape from Iraq in '95; it should not entail any great risk to them or you. Hopefully we can wrap this all up in less than the 30 days it will take to work out the plan for relocating you, Rachel, and your son.
I don't make this request lightly. You've already sacrificed more for your country than can ever be revealed—and no one knows better than I the risks you have faced in the past.
Pete, no one in the USG knows that I am making this request. Except for Bill Goode, GySgt Skillings, yours and Rachel's parents, and your sister Nancy, no one else even knows that Lt. Col. Peter Newman is still alive. If you want to keep it that way, I understand. If, on the other hand, you are willing to step into the breach once more, I believe you may well be the only one capable of saving a lot of American, Israeli, and U.S. Marines' lives.
If I am right about those nukes, we must do something about it. And if we are successful, this operation could be just what we need to make sure you all can come back home where you belong, as the heroes you really are.
Please discuss this and then, if you are willing to consider this mission, please tell GySgt Skillings, “Yes,” and I'll figure out a way to brief you on what I know and the plan that I have in mind. If, on the other hand, after prayerful reflection, you both decide that you've done enough, that the risks are too great, particularly after what you have already endured, just tell Skillings, “No,” and I'll try to find some other way to eliminate this threat. Whatever you decide, I will respect your decision, and we will press ahead as fast as possible with plans to get you new identities and relocate you.
Semper Fidelis,
George Grisham
General, USMC, CinC, CENTCOM
Peter and Rachel each read the letter again, silently and slowly. Peter watched as his wife read and saw tears well up in her eyes.
Finally Rachel broke the silence. “I almost lost you the last time you took one of these assignments...” She didn't have to finish the sentence for Peter to know how she felt.
“Neither of us wants this, especially right now,” Peter said in a quiet voice. “But if we've got to relocate from here anyway, it seems like we should at least consider it. If there really are people looking for me, I don't want to be here when they come knocking.”
“But what about James and me? Are we going to be safe while you're wandering around doing whatever it is you have to do to help find three nuclear weapons buried in the sand?”
Peter put his arm around her. “It's likely I can handle all this from Turkey—I probably won't even have to go into Iraq—although from what Gunny Skillings told us and the way that letter reads, I might be safer in Iraq than I am here. There sure isn't anyone looking for me there—and you'll likely be safer with me gone.”
“But things have changed!” Rachel said. “You've changed since your last mission—you're a different person. And I'm different. We have a new perspective...a spiritual perspective.”
Peter nodded. There was a time when he might hav
e argued with her, might have rationalized the need for his involvement in the mission. He didn't feel like arguing now. Still, something tugged at him from the inside.
“Honey, we've spent the past three years studying both Hebrew and Arabic. I can speak both well enough to get by anywhere in the Middle East. It's a lot different than last time, when I didn't know any Arabic.”
“And we have a child who needs two parents—”
“Yes. I know that. But still...”
“What?”
“I don't know; I can't explain it. But somehow I have to give General Grisham's request a fair hearing. I know we don't have a clue about what this is all about. We only know that it could be...uh...difficult.”
“Difficult? How about dangerous? Peter...he makes it sound easy, but you and I both know you're probably going to have to go into Iraq! You barely escaped with your life the last time you were there. If the government of Iraq knew you were back, they'd pull out all the stops to find you. They'll capture you for sure. And if they do...”
“They've forgotten all about me by now. They have more important things to think about these days. Sure...there's risk involved. But I've been trained to accept a certain amount of risk as long as I'm not reckless. You know me well enough to know that I don't take unnecessary chances.”
“I've got a bad feeling about this, Peter.”
“That's natural. But we can't rule our lives based on feelings alone. I wish I could hear all the facts first. I'd like to talk to General Grisham in person. But given what we've learned, we ought to try to give him an answer today. The more time he has to plan our relocation, the safer and smoother it'll go.”
Rachel hated the idea of leaving this refuge in the heart of Jerusalem, and she liked even less the thought of her husband going back into harm's way. But strangely—though it was hard to admit, even to herself—she had an inner peace that the two of them would eventually reach agreement on what to do. She was confident that the spiritual and emotional changes and growth in their lives during the past three years were enough of a foundation; they would be guided to the right decision.
“Honey, let's leave it for awhile,” Peter said. “I'm going to take a walk while you put James down for his nap. It'll give each of us some time alone—to reflect, think, and pray about it. Ask the Lord for wisdom. I promise you...I will not jump to any conclusions; whatever decision is made, we'll make together.”
David Citadel Hotel
Ha'Aliyya Street, Jerusalem
Saturday, 7 March 1998
1815 Hours, Local
“Mr. Mellis,” the voice on the telephone said, “it's me.” Neither man knew the full extent of the Israeli security and intelligence operations or whether the Mossad routinely bugged the hotel rooms and phones of foreigners, so they were both careful. “We were wondering, could you come for a late dinner?”
“Yes, sir,” Skillings answered, looking at his watch. It was already 1815 hours and dark outside. “What time?” he asked.
“Why don't you come in an hour or so?”
“I'll be there.”
Skillings put on a clean, civilian dress shirt and his Marine windbreaker. He walked briskly to the bank of three elevators. He felt the inside pocket of the jacket to make sure he still had the city map he had torn from one of the travel brochures. He looked over the street map as he waited for the elevator and decided to walk instead of take a taxi.
A group of European tourists were noisily chatting in the lobby when he exited the elevator. Another group was at the reception desk checking in. Skillings glanced up at a lone man on the escalator. A woman called out to him at the top of the escalator, and the two walked toward the restaurant on the upper level.
Skillings walked quickly to the revolving door and went outside. “Have a nice evening, sir,” the hotel bellman said to Skillings. It was the same man who had been on duty earlier that afternoon when the American had returned from his jog through the city streets. He had stopped Skillings at the entrance and assumed a different role—from that of bellman to security staff—and asked him to kindly wait a moment while he had a visiting businessman open his attaché case for inspection before entering. The rash of explosions caused by Palestinian suicide bombers made such security a matter of everyday protocol at the hotel.
The Marine waved off a waiting taxi. It was less than a thirty-minute walk from the David Citadel to the Old City, and the chilly evening air made the trek a brisk one. His watch showed 1840 hours as Skillings reached the Damascus Gate, just a short three blocks from the Hospice of Saint Patrick. A few minutes later, he was in front of the building. The large door was still unlocked and Skillings went inside the entry area. He pushed the button and announced himself into the speaker unit as Calvin Mellis.
The security gate buzzer sounded and Skillings opened it, walked inside, and then went upstairs. Newman was waiting at the top of the stairs and motioned for him to follow him to his apartment.
Inside their comfortable living quarters, Skillings tried to sound upbeat and cheerful. “Sure smells good,” he said to Rachel. She smiled and waved from the small kitchen while her husband led the tall Marine into the living room. They sat on the sofa.
James was playing on the floor and pretending to read a book. Skillings spoke to him, but the boy was shy and moved away, toward his father.
“This man is our friend, James,” Newman told his son. “His name is Amos. Can you say, ‘Hello, Amos?’”
The little boy stood beside his father and gained a little confidence. “Heh-wo, Amos,” he said softly.
Skillings held out his giant hand to shake hands with the boy. James took his hand and shook it and smiled when the burly Marine kneeled in front of him.
“I'm pleased to meet you, James.” Then Skillings sat on the floor beside the boy and asked him about his book and how old he was. Before long, they were playing together with one of the boy's toys.
After awhile, Rachel called them to dinner, and the four of them sat around the table in the small dining room off the kitchen. Rachel helped James onto a dark blue plastic booster chair. She smiled at her son.
“Would you like to say the blessing for our food, sweetheart?”
James bowed his head and folded his tiny hands and said in a barely audible voice, “Thank you, Jesus, for our food and bless us all, and Mr. Amos too. Amen.”
“Wow...that's good, James,” Skillings said with a wide smile. “You're really a grown-up boy for only two and a half.”
Newman smiled proudly and passed the platter of sliced, roasted lamb to their guest. Skillings was not a great lover of lamb, but he politely took a small portion and filled his plate with vegetables and bread. They kept the conversation light and pleasant during the next hour and a half. But after dessert, with James off for the night, they settled in the tiny living room, cups of coffee in hand. The Marine gunnery sergeant finally brought them back to the topic that had brought them together.
“Well, Colonel...is it a yes or no, sir?”
Rachel sat beside her husband on the couch and reached for his hand.
“Gunny...I want you to tell General Grisham that Rachel and I have been struggling all day to come up with an answer. We've talked and talked. And we've cried. We prayed about it, and talked some more,” Newman said. “Neither of us really wants to have to leave here or do what General Grisham is asking of me.”
“Yes, sir...I don't know the details of what the general was asking in that letter. But I know he was all torn up when he gave it to me. It affected him greatly too.”
There was a pause, and no one spoke.
“Uh...sir...what'll I tell him? Is it a yes or no?”
Peter looked at his wife, sighed deeply, then back at his friend. “Tell
him that Rachel and I are in agreement on this. Tell him ‘yes’—I'll do
what I can to help him.”
INTRIGUE
CHAPTER FIVE
Dneprovskiy Hotel
“Captain'
s Club,” Luxury Suite 17
Dneiper River Station, Moorage 2
Kiev, Ukraine
Sunday, 8 March 1998
0830 Hours, Local
Dimitri Komulakov was awakened by loud footsteps on the wooden planks of the long walkway outside his hotel suite. He raised himself enough to lean on one elbow at the edge of his bed. The steps stopped momentarily outside. Komulakov quickly reached for the nightstand where his kept his Makarov 9mm automatic pistol. He slid the weapon beneath the covers and released the safety, all the while watching the door.
Komulakov relaxed a bit as an envelope was slid under his door. The ex-KGB officer put the safety back on and laid the gun back on the nightstand. Then he remembered leaving instructions with the front desk that he wished not to be disturbed and asked that no phone calls be sent through to his suite until he asked for them again. The envelope probably contained a message that would have otherwise been forwarded to his room phone.
The management of the luxury hotel was usually very reliable, and they bent over backward to cater to their clientele. The only disagreeable part of the present equation was the fact that the bellman's heels made so much noise on the tiles in the hall when he placed the message under his door that the front desk clerk might as well have awakened Komulakov to deliver the message by phone.
General Komulakov yawned, then looked at the heavy gold Rolex on his wrist. He decided it was time to get up anyway. He had been up late, drinking and entertaining rich and politically powerful friends from Moscow, and as a result he hadn't retired until after three o'clock in the morning, a little bit tired and a lot drunk. The events of the previous evening had started out well, but then deteriorated. Komulakov didn't want to think about that just now.
